<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Cat and Mouse by reindeergames19</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27663409">Cat and Mouse</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeergames19/pseuds/reindeergames19'>reindeergames19</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Inglourious Basterds (2009)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:27:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,012</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27663409</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeergames19/pseuds/reindeergames19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when "The Jew Hunter" has his head turned by a stranger in a cafe? What happens when he discovers that this stranger is not what she seems? Nothing like a game of cat and mouse...but who is the cat and who the mouse?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hans Landa/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Cat and Mouse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Paris, April 1941<br/>
Sophie took a sip of her coffee as she flipped to the next page of the magazine laying open on the small table in front of her. As fascinating as the latest hair preparation was, she wasn’t paying attention to the article but to the comings and going of the busy Paris thoroughfare. Situated at a table just outside of a busy cafe, she scanned the crowd, her hawklike gaze hidden behind the dark lenses of her sunglasses. The cafe she was at not only boasted some of the best pastries in the city, but it also just so happened to be right across the street from SS Headquarters. So, once a week for the last 7 weeks, Sophie found herself at the busy cafe on the Rue des Saussaies, enjoying a warm croissant and a hot coffee and not reading a magazine, all the while observing and taking mental note of all the comings and goings of the “brave” men of the SS. She watched the mundane tasks of privates’ delivering corespondents and running errands to colonels and generals arriving in ostentatious staff cars for not so clandestine meetings. Sophie saw it all from her little table. And after her designated days of coffee and snooping she would go back to her sprawling Parisian flat, switch on her wireless and send a detailed report of all she had observed to her handler in London. For Sophie wasn’t just a Parisian busy body, she was Sophia Von Scheer-Beresford, an Austrian born-English raised senior agent of the Special Operations Executive, or the SOE. Churchill’s army of covert operators, with direct orders from the PM himself to “set Europe ablaze”. And that was exactly what Sophie was doing. Lighting every fire she could, for that’s what spies did. And she was very good at her job.</p>
<hr/><p>Hans Landa, SS Standartenfuhrer and self proclaimed detective was very good at his job. He was reminded of this time and time again whenever he successfully tracked down another Jewish family in hiding or apprehended any of the numerous Jewish and allied sympathizers still running rampant through France. Paris was a hot bed of said activity, as was evidenced by the whimpering mess of what used to be a French resistance fighter handcuffed to the chair in front of him. <br/>
“I’ll ask once more, my friend,” he spoke evenly, his French holding barely a hint of his Austrian origins. “When is the bombing set to happen?” <br/>
The mans only response was a jerky shake of his head and another pained whimper. Landa sighed, boredom gnawing at him. They’d been at if for 5 hours now and yet the dummkopf refused to budge. He motioned to the two other men in the room who moved forward out to the shadows. One fisted the prisoner’s hair and yanked his head back, exposing his battered face while the other produced a pair of pliers from a nearby table before gripping one of the prisoners iron cuffed wrists and summarily yanking the nail from his pinky. The man’s scream was grating, to say the least and Landa couldn’t help but wince. <br/>
He nodded to the man with the pliers once more and once more the dark cell was filled with ragged screams as well as the sudden acrid scent of urine. The beast had wet himself. Landa’s nose wrinkled in distaste. <br/>
“Enough of this.” He muttered impatiently in German, motioning for the two guards to back off. He approached the man slowly before crouching down before him, careful to avoid the slowing spreading puddle of blood and piss beneath the prisoner’s chair. He placed a gloved finger beneath the man’s chin and tilted his head up so he could look into his bloodshot eyes, pupils dilated with both fear and pain. <br/>
“I will ask one last time, monsieur. When is the attack to take place?” The man opened his mouth, preparing to spout off what Landa assumed was another insult or evasion, but Landa spoke first. “I know you do not wish to betray the trust of your friends, although co-conspirators would be a more apt description, but before you answer my question, think of your family, monsieur.” Landa proceeded to removed a small notebook from a cavernous pocket of his leather trench. He opened it and began flipping carefully through the pages. Finally reaching the desired page, Landa smiled. “Bon.” Good. He ran a gloved finger down the small page until he reached the entry he sought, tapping the page eagerly. “Bon.” He said again. “As I was saying, monsieur.” He continued, voice light. “You must think of your family. Of Magda, and Étienne, and your little girls.” Landa’s expression grew concerned. “It would be such a tragedy if any harm were to come to them, non?” The broken man began to cry, tears leaving bloody tracks down his cheeks. He shook his head, as he began pleading for the life of his family in rapid fire French. <br/>
“Of course I would love nothing more than to help you, my friend.” Landa continued, his tone sympathetic. “But nothing comes from nothing.” Landa rose suddenly, turning his back on the man to face the table behind him, making a show of stowing his notebook and gathering his hat. “Let us make a deal, oui? You tell me what I want to know, and I promise that I wont send these two men here to pick up your girls from school today and pay your pretty wife a visit.” The two men in question each took a menacing step towards the bound man as if to drive home Landa’s threat. <br/>
“Non!” The prisoner screamed! “Please! I’ll tell you anything you want, just don’t hurt them!” <br/>
Landa’s mouth curled into a Cheshire grin. <br/>
<em>Finally. </em><br/>
He schooled his expression before turning to face the man once more. <br/>
“A wise decision, my friend. These kind men will record all the information you have to offer us.” His face suddenly grew stony. “But if I should discover that you have kept even a shred of intelligence from us,” He leaned down, his nose nearly brushing that of the prisoner. “I will pay a visit to your family personally, comprenez vous?” <br/>
“Oui.” The broken man responded in a whisper. “Si’l vous plait.” He pleaded, openly crying now. Landa kept his position for a moment longer before straitening to his full height. <br/>
“Bon!” He exclaimed jovially. “Merci for your cooperation, monsieur!” He turned his attention to the two other men in the room, a smile still on his face as he switched seamlessly from French to German.<br/>
“If he does not cooperate, have my aide fetch me. If he does, record his intel and shoot him when you are finished.” He then placed his hat on his head with a flourish and turned towards the door, giving it a sharp rap. It opened a moment later and Landa exited the cell with out a backward glance, letting out a sigh of relief once the door closed behind him. <br/>
Perhaps a bite to eat before he filed his report. <br/>
He was famished. <br/>
 </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sophie closed her magazine and took the last sip of her now lukewarm coffee, her lips curling in distaste. She was just placing her cup back in its saucer when a shadow fell over her table. <br/>
“Café frais, s'il vous plaît.” She requested without looking up, assuming the shadow was her usually attentive waiter. <br/>
“Quelle belle idée, mademoiselle!” An unfamiliar voice responded. “Puis-je vous rejoindre?” <br/>
Sophie slowly raised her gaze, lowering her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. She was met with the rather jarring sight of a moderately handsome and immaculately dressed SS officer of middling years, a Standartenfurer judging by the clusters on his collar. <br/>
Just her luck.<br/>
She composed herself quickly and responded to his request to join her. <br/>
“I beg your pardon, monsieur.” She exclaimed with a tone of mock contrition that would fool her own mother, praying her slightly accented French went unnoticed. “I thought you were the waiter.”<br/>
“Non non. Not a waiter, I’m afraid.” He stated in near flawless French, a mischievous smirk playing on his face. “Just a humble soldier.” He then reached for her hand. Her thoughts immediately turned to the 9mm in her handbag, sitting innocuously across the table.<br/>
Sloppy of her not to keep it closer.<br/>
“Le colonel Hans Landa, à votre service.” He clicked his booted heels together before raising her hand to his lips, but never quite making contact.<br/>
It seems the Jerry is a gentleman, Sophie thought to herself, wry amusement outweighing the encroaching unease for just a moment. It took all her will power not to rip her hand from his grasp and wipe it on her skirt.<br/>
“Charmé, monsieur.” She affected her best dismissive drawl as she removed her had from his and signaled a passing waiter. “but I'm waiting for a friend.” The colonel laughed.<br/>
“Ah, the cut direct.” He placed a hand over his heart as if wounded. “Won’t you at least provide me with your name before you send me on my way, Frauline?” She considered him for a moment, red lacquered nails drumming against the table top. She leaned back, crossing her legs as she did so.<br/>
“Colette Letour.” She stated, using her alias.<br/>
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He teased as he pulled out the chair across from her. “Perhaps I could keep you company while you wait for your ‘friend’, Mademoiselle Letour?” He stared at her intently, one gloved hand resting on the back of the chair as if daring her to refuse him.  <br/>
“Of course, Colonel.” She grudgingly concedes. His face instantly changes, a large grin making him look almost boyish. <br/>
“Wunderbar!” He seated himself with a flourish of his long leather coat before crossing his legs and resting one arm on the back of the chair and the other on the table. He then just stared at her in silence for a moment, mouth set in an unnerving smirk.<br/>
“Lovely day, is it not?” He asked suddenly as he lifted his gaze and squinted up at the blue sky, one booted foot tapping jovially to the music coming from within the cafe.<br/>
“Charming.” She responded tightly as she eyed him over the rims of her sunglasses. He returned his gaze to her and continued to stare at her, a placid look on his face. He probably would have gone on staring if the waiter had not arrived to refresh her coffee. Landa requested another cup be brought to the table for himself and the waiter was quick to comply. <br/>
“Merci!” He beamed at the waiter when he returned with the cup and then busied himself with preparing his drink. Sophie watched with a combination of horror and amusement as the colonel spooned an obscene amount of sugar into his coffee. She rolled her eyes behind her glasses. <br/>
<em>Leave it to a Jerry to ruin a perfectly good cup of coffee.</em><br/>
Once he’d added the requisite amount of sugar to his cup, he tapped the spoon on the edge with a flourish before taking a sip, smacking his lips in satisfaction. She took a sip of her own coffee to mask her distaste, praying that he would finish his drink and leave her in peace. He startled her a moment later when he set his cup down suddenly and reached into a surprisingly deep coat pocket. Her hand instinctively reached for her purse and her gun within, but after a few moments of digging in his seemingly cavernous pocket, he produced a pack of cigarettes. She disguised her previous movement by fussing with the magazine still open in from of her and feels a bit foolish for being so jumpy. <br/>
He shockingly produced a pack of Craven A cigarettes and she wonders who exactly this man is. Obviously someone with connections if he had access to British made cigarettes. He then reached across the table, wordlessly offering her one, brow raised in question. She took one, practically without thinking, and leaned forward so he could light it for her. She couldn’t help but to savor the taste and the sudden rush of her first inhale. Women weren’t allowed to purchase cigarettes in this “new France” they found themselves in, and it had been sometime since she had the opportunity to smoke, having to rely on the benevolence of her male cohorts in her resistance cell here in Paris. And even then they were scarce and of sub par quality, tobacco having been rationed.<br/>
This was a rare treat indeed, and judging by the knowing smirk on the Colonel’s face, he was well aware and possibly even relishing in that fact. These Nazi pigs seemed to revel in having this power over the people they ruled over. Withholding not only luxuries like cigarettes, but food and fuel. Making the people unfortunate enough to find themselves under the Nazi boot heel rely on them. Even to be thankful for the scraps their occupiers occasionally bestowed upon them.<br/>
<em>Like the damned cigarette.</em><br/>
She now wished she had refused his offer, if only to hurt his titanic Aryan ego. And to piss him off. To wipe that self-important sir off his face. Instead, she took another long drag before dropping it in her half-finished coffee, inwardly cringing at the waste of a perfectly good cup of coffee and the half-smoked cigarette. <br/>
But the look on his face was worth it. <br/>
His brows furrowed, hand freezing halfway to his mouth while the smoke from his cigarette swirled around his head. She took his moment of shock as her opportunity to throw requisite amount of coins on the table for the bill, gathering her things as she stood. <br/>
“It was a pleasure to have met you, Colonel.” She said curtly as she pulled on her gloves and tucked her purse under her arm. “Au revoir.” And then she turned on her heel and weaved her way through the closely knit cafe tables and towards the sidewalk without a backwards glance. Her heart raced as adrenaline caused her hands to start shaking as she adjusted her purse. <br/>
What the hell had that been about? She thought to herself as she turned a corner and nearly got run over by a black Citreon speeding by. The only thing preventing such an outcome was the hand that suddenly wrapped firmly around her bicep and pulled her backwards to safety. She turned to thank her rescuer, offering a rushed “Merci” and froze when she saw who it was.<br/>
“Those Gestapo hotheads are terrible driver, non?” Colonel Landa stated casually, his hand still wrapped securely around her arm. His sly smirk had since replaced the look of shock she had left him with back at the cafe. That, combined with the rakish tilt of his cap made him appear almost handsome. <br/>
She attempted to rid herself of such thoughts, blaming her near death experience, but it wasn’t until he reached up with his free hand to adjust her hat that had been knocked slightly askew in the midst of all the activity that she finally got a grip.<br/>
“Did you follow me?” Her question came out as more of an accusation. She then stared pointedly at the hand still around her arm, which he promptly removed with a chuckle. <br/>
“I suppose I did, but my motives were not nefarious, I promise. I merely wished to return this.” He pulled a magazine from one of his cavernous coat pockets.”You seem to have forgotten in in you rush to be rid of me.”<br/>
She opened her mouth to protests. The last thing she needed was to piss of an SS colonel, but he wrapped a hand loosely around her wrist in what she assumed was meant to be a placating gesture.<br/>
“Only a jest, my dear.” His grip tightened slightly as he pulled her closer. “I tease rough.” He said, giving her a sly wink. “Perhaps in return for your bruising of my admittedly large ego and for my saving your life, you could give me a tour of this lovely city of yours?” His thumb made its way under the the cuff of her glove before brushing lightly against the bare skin of her wrist. “I am newly arrived and would love nothing more than to see Paris through a Parisians eyes.” Sophie was nonplussed, to say the least. The offer was so genuine, that had he been anyone else, or anything else for that matter, she would have agreed without a second thought. As it stood, he was a Nazi, SS no less, and she was an Allied spy. <br/>
Not exactly a match made in heaven, she thought to herself with dark amusement. She cleared her throat.<br/>
“Thank you for saving my life, Colonel Landa.”<br/>
“Call me Hans, I insist.” He interrupted.<br/>
“Hans,” She paused. “I am sorry, but I am very busy today, you are going to have to find yourself another tour guide.” She attempted to remove her wrist from his grasp, but his fingers remained unyielding.<br/>
“Then perhaps I might have the pleasure of calling on you later in the week, my dear?” Although it was spoken as a question, she was sure it was meant to be an order, judging by the hardening of his gaze. She inwardly sighed before responding. <br/>
“Meet me outside the Garden de Tuleries, 9 o’clock Thursday morning.”<br/>
“Bon!” He beamed at her as he finally removed his hand from her wrist. The relief of being free of his grasp nearly overwhelmed her. Unfortunately is was short lived, for he grabbed her hand a moment later before bringing it to his lips.<br/>
“Until then, my dear.” He murmured before clicking his booted heels and placing a firm kiss on the back of her gloved hand. He then turned with a flourish and made his way back towards the nearby SS headquarters where he presumably worked, arms clasped behind his back as he whistled what sounded suspiciously like Irving Berlin’s “Blue Skies”. </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>